


Slytherins at Heart

by beetle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Inception (2010)
Genre: Gen, Harry Potter AU, Inception AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:31:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the inception_kink prompt: "Harry Potter AU. Robert, despite not having a strong will or high ambitions, was sorted into Slytherin because of his family history. Yusuf, despite not being descended from wealth or prestige, was sorted into Slytherin because he's tough and conniving (and it goes without saying that he's awesome at Potions). They're both outcasts in their own way, and they find themselves drawn to each other because of it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slytherins at Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Turn not here for answers.  
> Notes: Harry Potter AU. Set pre-Sorcerer’s Stone by five years.

  
If one ever took a moment to ask Sebastus Robert Fischer IV what he was good at, the immediate answer that would come to the boy’s quick, but easily distracted mind would be: “Loads of things. Not that it’s any of  _your_  lookout.”  
  
But he would’ve been lying—a thing which hasn’t been  _un_ known to happen. For the fact is that Sebastus Robert Fischer isn’t much good at  _anything_  . . . at least nothing of which his father, one Sebastus Maurice Fishcer III, would ever approve.  
  
And deep down (not  _so_  deep down, really) Robert knows all of this. Knows it, despairs of it and, when he marches up to the Sorting Hat—manky, tacky old thing that it is—fully accepts it. He also fully accepts that he’s likely about to be sorted into Hufflepuff which, according to Sebastus Maurice, is the House for those with little talent and even less power. But even that’s not  _so_  bad. Because the only thing worse than being sorted Hufflepuff, would be not getting sorted at all. To be seen by wizarding society as little more than a  _Squib_.  
  
Sighing morosely, Robert approaches the stool, sits, and waits for Professor McGonagall to place the Hat on his head. And as the Hat descends, as he’s gazing out at the crowd of other young wizards who’ve yet to be sorted, Robert is caught by a pair of large, dark, eerily  _alert_  eyes. They seem to be drinking him in—studying his every move. The boy they belong to is tall, dark of skin and curly of hair. He’s clearly older than the other students, built like a born Beater, and utterly calm while waiting his own turn. It’s that calmness which Robert finds the most striking. . . .  
  
He blinks, as if surfacing from a particularly vivid dream, and a strange thought takes hold of him then:  _I shouldn’t mind being sorted Hufflepuff if he were to be sorted there, too._  
  
But of course such a keen-eyed, fearless boy would be sorted Gryffindor. Or—no, Ravenclaw, for even more than boldness, the boy radiates  _intelligence_. He—  
  
Robert hasn’t any more time for thought because the Hat is on his head, and he hears . . . _nothing_. No rhyming voice in his head, poking fun at him even as it takes his measure. No, this is nothing like his father and mother swore it would be. This is  _silent_  and ominous. As if there’s _nothing at all_  to be measured within one Sebastus Robert Fischer.  
  
At this, Robert grows angry—a rare occurrence, indeed.  
  
 _Alright,_  he thinks in shades of demon-green and icy-silver.  _I know you’re in there, Hat. And you_ will _sort me. Even if it’s into Hufflepuff._  
  
 _Hmm,_  comes an odd voice in his mind, raspy, dusty, and  _old_.  _There’s no denying your Touch is strong, but sorting you Hufflepuff feels a tad wrong. Your will is weak, but your heart is pure . . . better sort you Gryffind—_  
  
 _NO!_  Robert thinks, aghast.  _Don’t you dare!_  
  
There’s the strangest feeling of surprised amusement that isn’t his own, which nonetheless rattles around inside his skull like goblins in Gringotts.  
  
 _No?_  
  
 _Look, you, I’d rather be in Ravenclaw, than Gryffindor. My father’ll murder me, either way, but at least I wouldn’t be in his rival House._  Robert thinks as hard as he can.  _I don’t suppose there’s any way you_ could _sort me Ravenclaw, please?_  
  
 _Hmm . . . cleverness, I see here, but not quite enough. May as well sort you Hufflepu—_  
  
 _I can get cleverer! I promise, just—sort me into Ravenclaw with_ him! Robert calls into the space between his ears as he gazes,  _still_  gazes at the dark boy with the lively eyes. The boy still gazes back, but now he’s smiling a little, his eyes gone hooded.  
  
Robert shivers.  
  
The Hat laughs again, rich and tickled.  _I can see it here, from across the room, a silver light in midnight gloom. No ties to bind him, no kith nor kin. But ambition and cunning–why, that boy’s Slytherin!_  
  
 _Then sort me Slytherin, too!_  Robert is fairly bellowing, now, so hard that it makes his eyeballs throb and water, and scrinches his face up.  _I couldn’t bear to be sorted anyplace else! Please! Can’t you see I’m_ meant _to be wherever_ he _is?_  
  
Robert’s bellowing is cut off by the Hat groaning loud and long.  _Land below and sky above, a_ Fischer _being guided by_ love _?! Alright, alright, boy! Belay your din! By your choice I sort you SLYTHERIN!_  
  
The Slytherin part of the room breaks into dignified applause, and Robert nods, repressing his own grin of undiluted relief. He hops off the stool, nods at McGonagall, and walks past the unsorted students, catching the dark boy’s eye as he goes.  
  
The boy winks and smirks, and Robert’s heart beats a little faster. He smirks back and takes his seat next to a scowling Marcus Flint.  
  
“Yusuf Naidu!” McGonagall calls in her ringing, prissy voice, and finally the boy looks away, anxiety flashing briefly on his face as he makes his way forward.  
  
He’s barely gotten free of the crowd of milling children when the Hat yells: “SLYTHERIN!”  
  
The boy, Yusuf Naidu’s shoulders sag with relief, but only briefly. He’s quick to square them and turn and join his applauding House mates. He sits at their table next to Robert. This close up, Robert can see that his robe is slightly too small, his shirt and trousers slightly too large, and his tie is askew. But his eyes are brimming with calm confidence.  
  
“I’m Yusuf,” the boy says immediately, flashing saucy dimples at Robert. Robert blushes and clears his throat.  
  
“Sebastus Robert Fischer. Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” Robert replies formally, and Yusuf laughs, as if he’s told a frightfully funny joke.  
  
“ _Sebastus_? What a ghastly name!” he declares. Robert draws himself up in his most dignified manner.  
  
“And  _Yusuf_  is ever so much better,” he snorts. That smirk and hooded gaze make a reappearance. There’s a bit of hauteur to the look, as well.  
  
“I’m named for my father.”  
  
“Well, so’m I. And my fathers before that.”  
  
“Well, la-di-bloody- _da_.” But he’s still smiling, and Robert can’t help but return it shyly.  
  
Cheers from Gryffindor suddenly go up as a strapping, handsome boy called Oliver Wood gets sorted Gryffindor. Robert and Yusuf roll their eyes at the same time then laugh.  
  
“You can call me Robert. Everyone does,” Robert says generously, (‘everyone’ meaning his mother). Yusuf grins, and holds out his hand for shaking.  
  
“Well, Robert, shall we play a game of spot the Gryffindor?” he asks cheekily, nodding at the crowd of young wizards still waiting to be sorted. Robert laughs again.  
  
“Why not?” He takes Yusuf’s hand. It’s big and somewhat rough, as if it’s seen manual labor. Robert feels a thrill of excitement. Let alone having  _any_  friends, he’s never had a friend who was possibly . . .  _poor_.  
  
When the next young wizard to be sorted—Percival Weasley—makes his awkward, knobby-kneed way to the Gryffindor table, Robert and Yusuf both shrug and compare guesses. Robert had had him pegged for Hufflepuff and Yusuf for Ravenclaw.  
  
“Well, he  _is_  a Weasley, after all. It should’ve been obvious where  _he’d_  go,” Robert says, rolling his eyes. Yusuf looks confused.  
  
“Do Weasleys only ever get sorted Gryffindor, then?”  
  
Robert nods. “There’s never once been a Weasley that was sorted anything else,” is his sage and worldly reply. Yusuf’s eyebrows shoot up curiously.  
  
“It appears you have me at a distinct disadvantage.”  
  
“How so?” Robert unconsciously mirrors Yusuf’s look.  
  
“You know the who’s who of the wizarding world because you were born to it, and I don’t and wasn’t.”  
  
Robert’s eyes widen till they’re surely about to fall out. “You mean you’re a—a  _mudblood_?” He whispers, not knowing whether to be scandalized, disgusted, or thrilled. When Yusuf scowls thunderously, Robert swallows, and decides to reserve his judgment till he’s perhaps out of striking (or hexing) range.  
  
“Some idiots on the train called me that . . . but I showed them, I did.” He crosses his arms and pins Robert with a glare. “Don’t call me mudblood again or I’ll—I’ll knock your block right off!”  
  
“You wouldn’t!” Robert gasps, scandalized and quite uncertain of what a 'block' is. He doesn't know whether to cover his face or his crotch, and in the end does neither.  
  
“Would and could,” Yusuf says darkly, and Robert—who’s no reader of people, and can’t tell if he’s being bluffed—swallows again.  
  
“Th-then what am I to call you?”  
  
Yusuf sighs impatiently. “I told you:  _Yusuf_.”  
  
Robert bites his lip and dares another question: “What’s it like, being a mud—erm, a Muggleborn, Yusuf?”  
  
Yusuf glares for a few seconds longer then relaxes. “Like being a wizard, I imagine. I had a mother and a father, a home, I went to school, I ate, I slept. Everything was normal until. . . .” Now, Yusuf looks almost pained. “Until I started making things happen by wanting them to. And . . . well, I wound up in an orphanage for a while. Then I got my Hogwarts letter on my thirteenth birthday, and here I am.” Another shrug, this one bored and nonchalant, though Yusuf’s eyes have gone hooded again. “What’s it like being wizardborn?”  
  
“The best,” Robert answers simply, and Yusuf makes a face and turns back to the proceedings. A smallish girl (Lilac Parkinson, according to McGonagall) with inky-dark hair and a face like a pug approaches the stool and the Hat. She sniffs when McGonagall holds the Hat up.  
  
“Slytherin,” Yusuf says at the same time Robert does. They grin at each other and just like that, everything is all right between them. When the Hat calls out  _Slytherin!_ , the girl huffs and pushes it off her head, hopping down from the stool and striding smugly toward the Slytherin table. As she passes Robert, she looks him right in the eye and tilts her chin up haughtily without stopping.  
  
Frowning, Robert looks at back at Yusuf, who’s still grinning. “What was  _that_  about?”  
  
“Oh, I know, and it’s nothing good. You’re in danger, mate.” He chuckles evilly and Robert gulps. “Watch out for that one.”  
  
“You think she’s got it in for me?” Robert hadn’t thought to have made any enemies so soon—especially not within his own House. And the Parkinson girl certainly looked like she might know a jinx or two--not to mention how to cast it. Unlike Robert, whose jinxes, even the simple ones, go all awry.  
  
“In a manner of speaking, yes. She—wait, why should I tell you?” Yusuf’s grin turns sly and lazy. “What’s in it for me?”  
  
He’s only half joking, Robert knows. For a Muggleborn, he’s already got the hang of being a Slytherin just fine. “Erm, I have a few galleons on me. . . .”  
  
“Feh,” Yusuf says, waving a hand. “Money is so plebian.”  
  
“Then what  _do_  you want?” Robert asks genuinely curious. Then he remembers his own self-interest. “And how do  _I_  know that whatever you  _think_  you know is worth the price?”  
  
“You don’t.” Yusuf winks. “But it is.”  
  
Glancing down the table to where Lilac Parkinson sits (still staring at him as if trying to make him catch on fire) Robert heaves another sigh. “Right, then. What do you want?”  
  
Yusuf’s eyes flash. “A kiss,” he whispers, eyes darting all around them. Robert’s eyes do the same. There’s no one watching them but Lilac, and she’s too far away to hear what they’re saying.  
  
“A kiss?“ Robert gapes and goggles. “But—I’m a  _boy_!”  
  
Yusuf looks him up and down and smirks again. “ _Yeah_. But pretty enough to be a girl.”  
  
Blushing and flustered, Robert looks down at his hands. “M-mum says I’ll be handsome enough when I grow up.” It’s said not quite defensively. He acknowledges his looks, but is neither proud nor ashamed of them. Doesn't see the point, since he's had no hand in them.  
  
“Not handsome.  _Beautiful_ ,” Yusuf corrects. “There’s a difference, you know.”  
  
Robert risks a glance up at him. There’s a fierce look on his face that Robert can’t read, that does funny things to his stomach—like he swallowed a bunch of agitated pixies. “You really think I’ll be beautiful?” he asks uncertainly. Yusuf snorts again.  
  
“You already are—why do you think I want to kiss you?”  
  
“But—but—“ Robert can barely think, his mind is whirling so fast. “Right now? In front of _everyone_?!”  
  
Yusuf glances around again then back at Robert. “Of course not, don’t be daft!” He hisses.  
  
“Then when? Where?”  
  
Now,  _Yusuf_  looks uncertain. “I—don’t know.  _Yet_. But I’ll get back to you,” he adds, lest Robert think he’s off the hook.  
  
Not that Robert wants to be off the hook. Not exactly. . . .  
  
“You’re staring at me,” Robert says, blushing again. Yusuf’s eyes skitter quickly away, but come right back, defiant and unapologetic.  
  
“What of it? I told you:  _you’re beautiful_.” Yusuf scowls again. “ _That’s_  what Pug-face Parkinson’s look was about, and that’s why she’s staring at you now. She fancies you.”  
  
Robert’s eyes widen again, and he steals a glance at Lilac. She’s talking with another girl, but her eyes keep straying back to Robert. At least until she catches him watching her.  
  
“B- _loody_  hell,” Robert swears, and Yusuf nods his agreement.  
  
“My very thought,” he says glumly. In the background, the Hat yells  _Ravenclaw!_  and they both start, then laugh nervously.  
  
“Do, er, do  _you_  fancy me?” It comes out of nowhere, and falls from Robert's lips before he can stop it. And an alarming thing happens.  _Yusuf blushes_. Deeply enough that it shows up under his dark complexion.  
  
“A stone statue’d fancy  _you_ , mate. But don’t let it go to your head.” he sniffs, and Robert finds himself looking at his hands again—this time trying not to grin.  
  
“I won’t,” he promises, struggling not to preen. He’s always known and been told he’s an attractive boy, but coming from Yusuf, such a compliment takes on a greater weight that it ever had before.  
  
They fall silent once more, not looking at each other. Shortly, everyone’s sorted and Dumbledore claps his hands. A magnificent Feast appears on the long trestle tables, causing the students to _ooh_  and  _ah_  in appreciation before immediately digging in. But Robert barely notices what seem to be all his favorite foods suddenly within arm’s reach.  
  
Yusuf selects a chicken leg, but puts it on his plate without taking a bite. In a sea of chatter, the two of them are an island of silence.  
  
“You could, erm, kiss me good-night later . . . if you wanted,” Robert breathes in a rush, watching Yusuf from the corner of his eye. The other boy freezes in the midst of selecting a buttered roll from the tray in front of Robert.  
  
“ _Really_?” Yusuf fairly squeaks. Then he clears his throat. “I mean, er, I’d like that,” he croaks in not two, but  _three_  different octaves. His hand brushes Robert’s on the way back to his plate, a brief flirt of fingers (and buttered roll) against fingers, trailing up to Robert’s wrist. When he gasps and shivers, small, secretive smile curves Yusuf’s lips. Lips that would be pressing Robert’s own in a matter of mere hours. It’s enough to make him feel flushed and almost ill with anticipation and anxiety. “I’d like that very much.”  
  
“So would I,” Robert admits quietly, realizing that  _yes_ , he would indeed like it. Certainly more than he’d like to have Lilac Parkinson kissing him, at any rate.  
  
As if hearing this thought, Yusuf looks over at him and that secretive smile becomes open and almost sunny. “In the meantime,” he says jauntily, “You can tell me more about our esteemed professors—for instance, who’s that sallow fellow in black with the big nose and hair in dire need of a wash. Or six.”  
  
“Oh, him?” Robert snickers and follows Yusuf’s quick glance. Not that he needs to to know which professor is under discussion. “That would be Professor Severus Snape. He’s the potions teacher. He’s also our head of House.”  
  
“Figures.” Yusuf snorts. “That one looks as if he’s been sucking on lemons all day.”  
  
Robert giggles like a small child, covering his mouth then pushing his hair off his brow. “I wouldn’t put it past him . . . oh, see that tall witch sitting next to him on the right, with the feather in her hat? That’s Professor Sinistra—“  
  
Yusuf makes a rude, exasperated noise. “Does  _anyone_  in the wizarding world have an ordinary name,  _Sebastus_?”  
  
Robert bristles, but bears up under Yusuf’s keen gaze. Eventually, Yusuf’s the first to look away. After a few moments, Robert sighs and places his hand on Yusuf’s shoulder, but the other boy won’t look at him. “If you wanted to be surrounded by ordinary people, then Slytherin isn’t the House for you, Yusuf. Neither is Hogwarts the place,” he says softly.  
  
“Well. And what if they aren’t?” Yusuf glares at his chicken leg before dropping it in disgust. “It’s not as if I have any other options, is it? My family disowned me when my magic started manifesting. And I  _won’t_  go back to that bloody awful orphanage.  _I won’t_.”  
  
And with that, he finally looks back up at Robert with eyes that shine suspiciously. In that moment, all his confidence stripped away, Yusuf is just another scared child who’s far from home and all the people that he loves.  
  
In that moment,  _Robert loves_  him. And though he doesn’t know it, yet, he always will.  
  
“Of course you won’t,” he agrees firmly, meeting Yusuf’s intense, dark gaze with his own guileless blue one. He squeezes Yusuf’s shoulder companionably. “You’re a Slytherin at heart, whether or not you believe it yet, whether or not you understand it, yet. It may take you some time to get used to the wizarding world, but you will. And when you do, you’ll be a force to be reckoned with.”  
  
Now, the smallest of smiles crosses Yusuf’s face. “Is that so, Mr. Fischer?”  
  
“It is,” Robert says solemnly. “Trust me: I know these things.”  
  
“Alright. I’ll trust you.” Yusuf’s formal, hesitant tone says that this trust is normally very hard won. But somehow, Robert’s won it by doing little more than telling the truth as he sees it.  
  
Warmed by this, Robert grins and squeezes Yusuf’s shoulder one last time before letting go. “Well, that’s settled. Now, pass me the pumpkin juice, please.”  
  
Yusuf does so, making a face like he’s been snacking on lemons, himself. “I still don’t get how you lot can drink pumpkin juice like it’s fruit punch. It’s bloody  _revolting_!”  
  
Robert pours his cup full to brimming then elbows Yusuf. “Best get used to it, hadn’t you? You’re a wizard, now. And wizards drink pumpkin juice.”  
  
Yusuf opens his mouth and points his index finger down his throat. “That’s what I think of pumpkin juice. Although,” his eyes flick down to Robert’s lips and he licks his own, “I suppose I could get used to the taste all the same.”  
  
Robert blushes so hard it feels as if his face will burst into flame. He glances away from that hooded, lazy gaze. Finds himself looking at the Sorting Hat, which is sitting, quite forgotten on the stool. And something about the way it’s sitting, it’s dusty, dark conical of fabric wrinkled just so, makes it look almost as if the Hat has a  _face_. . . .  
  
Suddenly the conical droops down to one side, and the face shifts. Seems to smile and wink slowly at Robert.  
  
His own eyes widening, Robert looks back at Yusuf, who's watching him worriedly.  
  
“You’re suddenly white as a sheet,” he says, frowning. He puts a tentative, gentle hand on Robert’s knee. “Everything alright?”  
  
“Fine, just fine.” Another quick glance at the Hat shows just that: a manky, tacky old hat, slumped over on a wooden stool, no face in evidence.  
  
Robert grabs his pumpkin juice and gulps it down like a warm butterbeer on a cold night. Next to him on his left, Yusuf continues to make gagging noises. To Robert’s right, Marcus Flint sucks down a pile of rather squashy looking peas and belches. From the far end of the table, Lilac Parkinson watches him with quizzical disapproval.  
  
(On Robert’s knee, the memory of Yusuf’s touch burns like a sweet, secret fire. . . .)  
  
And so their first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry begins.


End file.
